


hōs g’amphíepon

by obirain



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Order 66 (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28516575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obirain/pseuds/obirain
Summary: It's sunset on Tatooine, and the exiled Ben Kenobi treats himself to a cup of tea.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	hōs g’amphíepon

**Author's Note:**

> Request from Tumblr: "Maybe if you feel like it, a fic that focuses on the in-world characters with Obi-Wan, and the prompt “tea” from your word list? ❤️"

A man sits on a dune before the chasm. Before him, a fire—not nearly big or bright enough to keep him warm. And beyond, two suns preparing to set into the canyon. They shine orange and red onto the endless expanse of desert; the sand gleams like a sea of gold. And atop the crest before the plunge is the man and his fire, and his simple, shallow kettle. His back is straight, his legs are crossed; he cradles his teacup in both hands and lets the steam waft into his weathered face. It comes as a comfort.

The desert gets cold at night: cold and restless. A gust of wind whistles in from the North. It rings ghostly through the canyon and kicks up a wave of sand that unfurls into his face like a long exhale. But he makes no effort to shield himself; he only covers his cup with his palm until the wind dies down. The dust settles into his hair, his robes, into his very skin, and in such a state of calm he feels every grain. The steam struggles against his palm: it burns through the fraying fingerless gloves, through the calluses to the bones within. Is it for his decades of discipline that he keeps still? Or is he simply too empty to wince?

Every day he passes by the skeleton of a krayt dragon, bleached by the sun and scored by the sand. It lies just as still as he sits now. 

The wind passes on and the desert is still again. At last he moves his hand away and breathes deep—earthy, herbal, medicinal, like rich, ancient soil from greener planets far away. There the rain fell in plenty; there he regularly indulged in tea that tasted of summer wildflowers. It hadn’t seemed like much of an indulgence at the time. But now, having himself wandered the canyons and plucked and dried the leaves, he wonders if he ever truly appreciated the vendors as he ought. 

In the stillness, the little fire comes to life again, pulsing steady as a heartbeat. Between the wind and the cooling evening air, it’s hardly warmer than a candle—just enough to boil the water. The hotter the water, the better the tea, he’s found. 

If only he’d learned it sooner! Then he might have appreciated it more. All those years ago when he brewed it for the first time, he was too gentle with the water and too sensitive to the heat. It came out weak, dusty, and foul, like he’d swallowed a mouthful of ashes. He poured it down the drain of that Nubian starship but, unwilling to toss them away, tucked the leaves into one of his pockets.

_“I’ve not yet the taste for Tatooinian tea, I’m afraid,”_ he told his Master. It wasn’t often that Qui-Gon brought him gifts and he certainly didn’t want to seem ungrateful. 

_“Nor do I,”_ Qui-Gon replied, _“but I assumed you deserved the experience, if nothing else. And the boy’s mother was kind enough to send you some.”_

It wasn’t until months later that he realized the tea had been lost. 

Another gust of wind, stronger than the first, tears through the dunes. Again he covers his tea with his hand as again the sand embeds itself into every fold, crease, and pore. Surely it’ll bury him one of these days, bury him like the spine of that old krayt dragon.

But not today. When the air settles and he opens his eyes, the fire’s gone out and left nothing but charred remains peeking out from the sand. The only light now comes from the suns, impossibly huge but somehow distant, cold and wistful in their beauty. The first is already halfway below the horizon. It seems to sink into the canyon itself, falling through the dusty air like liquid gold. The second follows fast and close behind. It’s lighter and brighter and _wants_ to shine. For whom, who can say—maybe for everyone; maybe for no one at all. Maybe it knows the desolation of its satellite, and pities it. Or maybe it shines for him and him alone: one last companion before the moons rise. 

He keeps his eyes fixed ahead as he finally lifts the cup to his lips. The water burns his tongue and sears his throat. The leaves mingle with the sand and grind against his teeth. And, if he’s being honest, it _does_ still taste like ash; everything does. He’s just acquired a taste for it. 

So he takes another sip. He smiles. Back straight, legs crossed, he closes his eyes as the second sun sets. 


End file.
